


Harder to Find What's Right

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [44]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:39:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harder to Find What's Right

XLIV.

‘So what was that?’ Sam drops his muddied gun on the motel bed as Dean heads straight for the bathroom.

‘Mud.’ 

‘I think we got that, Cas,’ Dean calls as he’s trying to wipe the mud off his face with a wet towel. 

It’s easier just to shove his head under the bathtub tap. The cold water helps wake him up a little, too. The tug of exhaustion from weeks of poor sleep is almost enough to make him want to curl up and sleep right on the bathroom rug. 

He scrubs the mud out of his hair with his fingers and shakes like a dog when he pulls out from under the water, turning off the tap with his wrist. Out in the room, he can hear Sam: ‘What _else_ was it, Cas?’

‘Demon energy.’

‘Possessed?’

‘Not really. More like -- animated. Like a doll which you...plug in.’

‘But this is mud plugged in to demons.’ Dean leans on the jamb of the bathroom door, scrubbing at his dripping hair. ‘The demons _you_ bound.’

Castiel winces and does not meet his eyes. He is sitting gingerly on the edge of Dean’s bed, his hands outspread to either side of himself. He seems to be testing each breath he takes before inhaling fully and Dean’s chest aches in sympathy. ‘Apparently so.’

Dean tosses the towel over his shoulder into the bathroom, hearing it land with a wet thud. ‘Can they do it again?’

Castiel looks up at him sharply. ‘If you do not let me go and refresh the bindings--’ He shrugs. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Well, that’s not an option, so you’re gonna have to come up with somethin’ else.’ Dean strides over to the bed and taps Castiel on the shoulder. ‘Off.’

Castiel looks up at him, eyebrows drawn together and Dean jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

‘The coat. Off.’

‘I am not injured, Dean.’

‘That thing dropped you twice from at least ten feet up.’

‘Bruises.’

Dean rolls his eyes. ‘And you already told me you were lyin’.’

‘So I’ll just leave you two to...uh, to it --’ Sam pushes himself to his feet. ‘--and...and...uh...go and...’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘...and call Bobby, see if I can figure out anything that might...uh...’ He glances from Dean to Cas and back again, then shrugs. ‘...help.’

The door closes behind him and leaves Dean still glaring at Cas. ‘Take the coat off, Cas.’

Castiel rises to his feet slowly, forcing Dean to take a step back or be chest to chest with him. ‘Dean, there is work I must--’

‘I. Don’t. Give a shit,’ Dean says slowly, not moving back. ‘Read my lips.’

‘I would not attempt to prevent you from--’

‘Bullshit. You’d sit on my head and get Sammy to help you. So take the fucking coat off and lets get this over with.’ Dean grabs up the cheap plastic ice bucket from its stand near the TV and points from Cas to the bed. ‘Coat off. Shirt off. On the bed. By the time I’m back.’ He waves the bucket in Castiel’s astonished face and marches out the door.

* * *

In the five minutes it takes him to track down the ice machine -- seriously, do they have to be in a different place in _every single_ motel? -- and kick it into working, Dean has plenty of time to work up an award-winning case of nerves.

By the time he’s beaten enough ice out of the machine to fill the plastic bucket, he wants to walk to the coffee shop across the parking lot -- free Wi-Fi, where the hell else is Sam gonna be? -- and hand the whole thing over to him: injured angel, weird-ass demon hunt, car keys, emotional involvement, PTSD, the whole freakin’ nine yards. Sam’s got enough sensitivity for _ten_ normal people -- Jesus, at that rate _Sam_ and Cas should be the ones making googoo eyes at each other!

_Sober the fuck up, Winchester._ He shakes his head hard and forces himself to turn back towards his room. 

Whatever he and Cas had that was more than a working relationship is over.

Done. Finished. Kaput. Through. _Over._

Dean grimaces at the thought and grits his teeth. 

It isn’t pleasant and, if he’s being honest with himself, it isn’t even what he _wants._ But since when does he deserve a second -- fuck that: a third, fourth, _fifth_ \-- chance?

So it’s the truth -- it’s real, and since when has lying really gotten him anywhere?

The job now is to glue Cas back together -- again -- and try to stop him going on a suicide mission -- again. 

* * *

Dean goes back into the small room, shutting the door firmly, determined to keep this businesslike and professional and-- _Shit. He’s naked._

For a second, his tired brain threatens to shut down entirely and leave him on his own. It’s only the touch of ice against the inside of his wrist that snaps him back to reality.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see when he walked back in. Empty space, maybe -- or a pattern of drifting wing feathers in the shape of a middle finger. Castiel shirtless hadn’t been at the top of the list. 

The trenchcoat, shirt, and tie are neatly folded at the bottom of the bed, mud slowly drying and flaking on to the dark grey carpet from the hem of the coat. 

Castiel without his shirt nearly _glows_ he’s so damned pale but there is some serious muscle there and Dean has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep from saying something really clever like: ‘So angels do power sit-ups?’ 

He’s sure he’s seen Castiel shirtless before -- hell, he’s seen _more_ than that before, even if he’d seriously rather not think about it -- but he’s having a very hard time not staring because this time is right _now._

Castiel is sitting beside his clothes, arms crossed over his bare chest, and is glowering at him -- actually _glowering._ ‘This is unnecessary, Dean.’

That makes it a little easier not to stare and Dean blinks and drops the bucket of ice next to the TV. ‘Yeah? Talk to me about that bruise on your ribs.’ He points to the wide band under Castiel’s breastbone, stretching from under his arm to the center of his chest. 

‘It will be fine.’

‘Take a deep breath.’

Castiel’s scowl darkens.

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘I need to go--’ Castiel stands up, reaches for his shirt, and Dean snatches the small heap of clothing out of his way. 

‘Hell, no. Not unless you stand there and do that -- that angel healing thing you do.’ Dean gestures with his elbow, both hands full of Castiel’s discarded clothes.

‘Dean, I _cannot._ I must have energy to travel and this--’ Cas gestures dismissively at the bruises flowering out on his pale skin. ‘--is not enough to hamper me.’

‘And what are you gonna do when you’re gone?’ Dean dumps the clothes down on the chair across the room and digs the spare trash bags out of the bin by the bathroom door. They’re small, enough to make a couple ice bags, and making ice bags is a fantastic reason not to look at Cas.

‘I must refresh the binding on the traps--’

‘But they’re already broken.’ His fingers are freezing and wet, and he fumbles to tie up the last bag. ‘So what’s the point?’

‘They are _not_ broken, just breaking -- if I can strengthen them in time--’

Dean leaves the plastic bucket on the floor and turns back to the bed, gesturing to it with his free hand, ice bags piled in the other. ‘Lie down. Face or back, I don’t care. You’ll be more comfortable when we get some of that swelling down.’ He’s really faintly surprised that his voice is steady and Castiel doesn’t seem to be noticing the fact that his mouth is bone-dry.

‘Dean, you are not listening to me--’

‘I _am_ listening to you. I’m just not doing what you want.’ Dean gestures with the ice bags, now dangling one from each hand, and grins in a fashion he knows Sam finds infuriating. ‘It’s a trick I’ve got.’

Castiel’s jaw tightens and he glares at Dean and is opening his mouth to speak as the door opens and Sam comes back in. He glances between the two of them. ‘So -- you’re doing well. Cas, how many demons did you bind?’

‘Three,’ Castiel answers as Dean drops the ice bags on the bed, shaking out his chilled hand.

‘Each with a demon trap?’

‘Yes.’

‘So -- if we nabbed two more, we’d have enough to make a _big_ trap?’

Castiel’s brows quirk together, but he nods slowly. 

‘What if we make them trap each other?’ Sam is practically vibrating he’s so excited and he can’t stand still, pacing up and down the length of the room. ‘If we build a _huge_ demon trap, with a demon at each point, so they can’t break any one link without destroying each other.’

‘They’re demons, Sammy. I don’t think they’re gonna care,’ Dean breaks in.

Sam frowns. ‘Well, maybe... So maybe we can link something else in, too, but there’s no way Cas can reinforce the traps _now_ to make them strong enough to hold. And he can’t rebuild the traps with the demons _in_ them. They’d break free in no time.’ He fumbles in the pocket of his backpack and brings out a small silver flask. He shakes it and Dean can hear a faint slosh of liquid. ‘Plus, we’ve got this.’

‘Ruby’s blood.’ Castiel regards the flask speculatively. ‘It might work, Sam. We would need to bring all five points together, though -- the three I scattered would not be close enough. We cannot make a trans-continental demon trap.’

Sam shrugs, shoving the flask back into his bag and zipping the pocket shut. ‘So we’ll figure out a way to move ‘em.’

‘What -- demonic U-Haul? Rent-a-Devil?’ Dean snorts.

‘I can do it,’ Castiel says and glances up at Dean. ‘But you are right.’ He turns and stretches himself on the cheap cotton comforter. ‘Will you hand me one of those bags, please?’

‘Uh...sure...’ Dean picks up one of the icebags, now starting to melt, and drops it next to Castiel’s hand. He tries not to watch as Castiel arranges it over the bruise on his ribs, wincing at the cold on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Dance with the Devil," Breaking Benjamin, _Phobia._


End file.
